Taylor was here. At McBain’s Distillery.
I knew it was her before she knocked on the open door of my office.
Her scent tickled my nose, and I thought I was having another flashback.
I’d been having a lot of those over the last week.
First she broke my dick, then she haunted my dreams with her soft thighs and sweet cries. My memories of that night and the morning that followed had even invaded my waking thoughts.
Remembering the way she looked, the scent and feel of her, had given me a constant hard-on and a raging case of blue balls. My hand wasn’t enough, never enough.
But this wasn’t another flashback, because the scent that tickled my nose—the purest high-altitude air mixed with the floral products she favored—grew stronger.
Then she knocked and walked into my office.
“Taylor.”
I didn’t stand, couldn’t stand, because I was hard.
She opened her mouth to say something—then started to cry.
Her tears had me on my feet and around the desk with preternatural speed, but she didn’t notice.
She just clung to me and cried into my shirt.
I held her gently and rubbed her back in soothing circles as I plotted the bloody dismemberment of the walking dead man who’d made her cry.
It didn’t occur until several seconds later that I might be the cause of her tears, and cowardly bastard that I was, I didn’t want to ask.
I wanted her in my arms, even if she only sought comfort from me.
A voice in the back of my head whispered, “Especially if she sought comfort,” because I wanted to be the one to kiss away her tears, fight her battles, conquer her demons.
Me and no one else.
Her tears slowed, then stopped, and when she rested her forehead against my chest and inhaled deeply, I knew she was gathering herself to speak, and I steeled myself for her words.
“I didn’t realize I needed a good cry. I’d have done it in the car earlier if I’d known how much it would help.” She sounded oddly calm. She sniffed and stepped back, then dug in her purse until she unearthed a tissue.
After dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose, she stood up straighter. “Better.”
My experience with weeping women was limited, but Taylor’s behavior seemed odd to me. As if crying were simply a bodily function that served a purpose.
I searched her face for lingering evidence of distress, but she seemed composed. Only the redness of her eyes remained as evidence of her previous agitated state.
“What happened?” The words emerged grittier that I would have liked, but it was better than the growled “Who do I need to kill?” that my beast preferred.
She rolled her eyes, and her cheeks turned a pretty pink. She was embarrassed to share the details. “A thing at work. It upset me.”
“You should quit.”
I was just as surprised by my response as she was.
She blinked, which was when I realized I was staring at her. My beast was angry, and I was staring, yet she’d held my gaze for several seconds.
Taylor Adams might be as pretty as a picture, specifically a pinup girl disguised as an angel, but she was much more resilient than her looks indicated.
“I’m not quitting.” Her voice was firm, unyielding.
Resilient and independent.
I quieted my beast. I was no were-creature, pushed and pulled into actions by a barely controlled “other” inside me. My dragon and I were two halves of a unified whole.
In a much smoother tone than I’d thus far displayed, I asked if she’d like a drink.
“I have to drive.”
But her eyes followed me with interest as I moved to the small bar behind my desk and poured myself a drink.
“Is that your whiskey? I mean, McBain’s?”
I nodded and showed her the bottle. This wasn’t a variety she’d find at the local bars.
A soft sigh escaped her lips. “Well, maybe a little one.”
“You can drink as much as you like. I’ll make sure that you and your car are delivered home safely.”
Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she closed her eyes and considered my words. When she opened them, they contained a determined glint. “Yes, Bain Tolliver, I will have that drink. Thank you very much.”
It made me absurdly happy that she knew my full name. I’d never told her, so she’d hunted down that piece of information. Just like she’d hunted me down at McBain’s.
Much as I hated to see her in distress, I was also immensely satisfied that she’d turned to me for comfort and aid.
Once she had a drink in front of her and had taken a seat, I said, “Tell me what happened.”
She lifted the glass to take a sip of my best whiskey, and she froze. First her lips tipped up into a faint smile, then she caught my gaze and held it as she savored her first sip.
Watching her drink my whiskey while she looked into my eyes was erotic as hell.
When she lowered the glass, she said, “How in the world do you make your whiskey smell like you?” Her head tilted. “Or do you smell like your whiskey?”
No.
Not possible.
She’d made comments before about cinnamon scents, but I’d thought…impossible.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Because I needed her to be clear.
A small crease appeared between her eyes, like I was a question she couldn’t quite work out. Then she lifted the glass and inhaled. “Smoky cinnamon and…” She blushed and didn’t finish her thought.
I was dying to know what she wasn’t saying. Smoky cinnamon and…what?
The question burned inside me, because Taylor wasn’t describing my aftershave or my soap. Not my shampoo or my laundry detergent. What she was describing, what she was scenting, it was impossibly more intimate than that.
Taylor was catching the scent of my magic.
An impossibility… Unless she wasn’t fully human.
But all of my senses confirmed that she was human. There was a chance, slim though it might be, that she was also psychic, but that didn’t make her less human or more likely to scent my magic.
The only other option wasn’t possible.
My mate could scent my magic.
“Are you sure you want to know about what happened at work?” She continued to savor her drink and eye me curiously.
I nodded numbly.
My mate.
The woman of my soul.
The future mother of my children.
Impossible.
But then her words broke through the haze of my shock and disbelief.
“The mole man was at your office?”
When she nodded, all other emotion burned away in the wake of my boiling rage.
The mole man was the rat shifter. The one who’d dared to lay hands on her.
“Mine.” The word emerged from deep in my chest, part spoken language, part growl.
She sat up straighter and shivered. “I’m sorry?”
My claim emerged without conscious thought, spurred by instinct. But I spoke the truth.
My truth.
Taylor’s feelings were more complex. Conflicted. It was plain to see that she was both deeply attracted to me…and wary.
I wanted to haul her into my lap and mark her. Fuck her. Soothe her. Listen to her woes and make them better. Then fuck her again.
But she needed time. And an explanation.
“Ah… Maybe we should talk about this later.” She spoke in a measured tone as she set what was left of her drink on my desk with slow, deliberate movements. She sensed my beast and feared him. “We can catch up another time.”
This time there were no tears to mask the speed of my movement. I was around the desk and in front of her before she could stand.
I couldn’t let her leave.
If I told her everything, I was certain she wouldn’t stay.
“I want you.” It was the only truth I could give her that wouldn’t chase her away.
I hoped it was enough.